


Proper Procedures for Undercover Missions

by solomonara



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alcoholism mention, Bar Fight, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleeptalking, concussion, jaydick-flashfic: text messages, no romance but feel free to wear your shipping goggles if you like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solomonara/pseuds/solomonara
Summary: Dick gets a text to come pick up a lost phone since his number – filed under N – is the only one in the contacts.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 37
Kudos: 588
Collections: Jaydick Flash Fanwork Challenge





	Proper Procedures for Undercover Missions

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to [penta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus) for the helpful tutorial and the egging on, and to [Dragonsorceress22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonSorceress22) for the quick beta read!
> 
> And finally, thank you to CodenameCarrot and La_Temperanza for [creating this skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845/chapters/14729722#workskin) to work with in the first place!

Transcript of a text message exchange

📶 ONet 🔒 9:30 AM 🔋  
**Message from:** ‹ Unknown   
  
**Yesterday** 10:34 PM  
 **Unknown:** is ur friend going to come get his phone?  
 **Today** 5:02 AM  
 **Dick:** Sorry I think you have the wrong number  
 **Today** 9:29 AM  
 **Unknown:** it better not be the wrong number its the only one in this phone  
 **Unknown:** ur N right?  
 **Dick:** Oh that friend  
 **Dick:** Tell you what I'll come get it for him. What's the address  
 **Unknown:** the Manhole on 85th. he left it here two days ago  
 **Unknown:** show up during open hours or not at all  
 **Unknown:** im selling it on ebay if u don't show by Friday

Dick called Bruce first, thinking that Matches Malone was exactly the kind of person who'd annoy someone so much they'd threaten to sell the phone he'd lost at a bar. Bruce protested his (and Matches') innocence, however, and moreover informed Dick that he wasn't aware of any of the family having operations that would take them to a dive bar in the Bowery. Dick knew that didn't mean there weren't any, though.

His next call was to Babs because sometimes she knew things Bruce didn't.

Not in this case, however.

"It's weird that it was just you in the phone. Why even have a phone? Why not use coms?" she mused. "Let me just take a peek at yours to check the number…"

"I can literally read you the number right now, Babs."

"Too late, already got it. Hm. Looks like a low-tech burner phone. It is where the person who texted said it would be, though, and that place is definitely a dive bar so it's probably not a trap."

Well, if she was determined to Oracle the situation, he'd oblige. "Any intel on the bar?"

"Pretty normal for that area. Not choosy about who drinks there. Some regular folks, some henchmen and minions. It's not neutral ground or anything so it's probably mainly the ones who are between villains at the moment looking for work."

"Anything happen there two days ago?"

Babs hummed softly as she scoured whatever webs she had in place to answer that kind of question. "No security feeds I can access, nothing on closed circuit nearby I don't think. And it's not the kind of place that calls the cops if there's a ruckus."

"Guess there's one way to find out."

"You want backup?"

"Why take backup when I could take one single burner phone with one single number in it instead?" Dick asked with a roll of his eyes. "Let me know if anything else pops up, though."

He did double check with Tim and Duke to be on the safe side, and it was neither of theirs. Damian he felt safe skipping since there was no way his four foot pre-adolescent self had gotten into this sort of bar, but he did check with Steph and Cass; their disguise work was decent and either of them could have been a 'he' if they'd been trying.

They hadn't.

That left Jason. Who wasn't answering his com or his phone.

Which left Dick wandering into The Manhole the following evening lightly made up to look like he was not Dick Grayson.

It was the kind of place that kept the lights low so you couldn't see what was on the floor too clearly, even if you could feel it sticking to your shoes. The large window at the front was boarded over to boot, though the plywood had only been tagged twice so it was probably a new addition. A couple of busted chairs sitting by the back door clearly on their way out reinforced that notion, as did the empty space in the middle of the bar where more tables and chairs should have gone.

Dick stuck his sunglasses on his head and grinned at the woman behind the bar. "Rough week?"

She eyed him mistrustfully, which was fair. His shoes and jeans were expensive, his smile a little blinding. But those shoes had lifts in them to disguise his true height, and his eyes were brown at the moment, his hair slicked back and his lips thinned along with a few other subtle touches. "That's the business," she said with a shrug. "What can I get you?"

"A phone," Dick said, pulling out his own. He showed her the text conversation.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "Here you go." She pulled out a cardboard box with Lost and Found scrawled across it in sharpie and plucked out a sad looking burner phone. It was a flip variety, but a busted hinge meant it was no longer closing properly and the outside was badly scuffed.

"Speaking of rough weeks," Dick said, taking it between two fingers to dangle it at eye level. "Geez."

"Not my fault," the woman said. "Got banged up in the fight, probably. I didn't have to hang on to it, you know. Which reminds me." She slapped a sheet of paper onto the bar and slid it over to him. "Your friend caused a lot of damage here."

It was a bill for several thousand dollars' worth of repairs. Dick glanced over it. Replacement window, replacement furniture, replacement glassware. It had been padded a little, but not egregiously.

"It'll be taken care of," he said, sweeping the paper up and folding it into quarters. The barkeeper watched it disappear into his pocket with undisguised suspicion, and a little regret. Probably wishing she'd padded more generously if he was going to give in that easily. "Want to tell me what happened?" he asked.

"Why don't you ask your friend?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Dick said, leaning against the bar casually – but careful not to invade her space. "You want to look good in front of your friends so you maybe embellish a little, or leave things out. Figure I'll compare your story to his when I get around to asking him."

She considered him for a few moments. "You his dealer or something? I don't want trouble."

"No, no, nothing like that," Dick said with an appropriately alarmed expression. "I'm his sponsor."

Her eyebrows went up at that. "Hoo boy. Well your boy's been in here five nights out of seven this past week."

Dick nodded solemnly. "We’re working on it."

"Didn't drink much, though, give him that," she said. "Mostly seemed to be waiting for something. I figured him for— well, some guys come in looking for work sometimes, and sometimes they find it, is all I'll say."

"And did he? Find it, I mean?"

"Sure did. Fell in with some boys who said they had an in for a shipping job down at the docks. Won't say for who, if you don't mind, I value my skin."

"As do I," Dick assured her. "Is that who he got in a fight with?"

"Yeah, surprised the hell out of me, too, cuz they were getting along like fleas on a cat. Then the night before they were supposed to do the job, the boys come in, spot your friend, and start asking him is he really who he says he is, and how dumb does he think they are, and next thing you know…" She gestured at her boarded-over window. "For a drunk, he's pretty strong. Picked a guy up and threw him straight through. You really going to take care of that bill?"

"I'm going to make sure he does. I will apologize for the trouble, though. It won't happen again."

"Well, good. Because if I have to send someone to track him down I will."

 _You'd never find him_. "I understand that." He waved the phone at her. "Thanks for picking this up."

Once outside, around a corner, down a narrow alley and a hop-jump-swing up a fire escape, Dick took the phone out to examine it more closely. Just as the barkeeper had said, there was only one contact in it: his number, filed under N. There were a few incoming and outgoing calls that he could probably have Oracle look into, but… well, why not go straight to the source. Plenty of the bats could pick someone up bodily and hurl them through a window, but only one of them hadn't answered Dick's calls.

Now he just had to find him.

A little logic and one quick check with Babs later, Dick was standing in front of a five-storey brick building that housed two small families, a retired librarian, a pair of exotic dancers, a single father and his kid, the building super and her wife, and definitely no one at all on the whole top floor according to leasing records.

The fact was, if Jason's operation required working out of The Manhole and later the docks, he'd want somewhere central to the two. There were a lot of buildings that fit that bill, but most of them were storage space or vacant commercial buildings. It wasn't that Jason _couldn't_ have a safe house in an abandoned building or a storage unit, and indeed he likely had a supply cache or two scattered around in those, but for an undercover operation lasting more than a day in the middle of winter it was nice to have things like a secure internet connection, heat, and a kitchen somewhere no one would remark on them.

It hadn't taken Oracle long to find the owners of the half dozen spaces that qualified in the target area, and only one stood out. RH Holdings indeed.

The building wasn't locked and Dick headed straight for the top floor, taking the stairs. The door to the fifth floor _was_ locked, however, and though Dick picked the lock the door still wouldn't open. It seemed to be deadbolted from the other side. Dick considered his options, then continued up the stairs to the roof access door.

This one yielded to his tampering and let him out onto an innocuous graveled rooftop. He'd squirreled away a few tricks in his pockets – nothing heavy duty or obvious, but enough to let him lower himself to a bedroom window, identify the security lining it, and bypass it. The window was blacked out, naturally, but when Dick slid it open he found that the room beyond was dark as well.

He lowered one foot cautiously to the floor, half expecting alarms to go off at the change in pressure. Depending on how paranoid Jason had been feeling when he'd outfitted this safehouse, it wasn't an irrational concern. But nothing happened, and Dick eased the rest of himself in and slid the window closed again, shutting the darkness inside with him.

A quick sweep with a flashlight showed an unmade bed, a floor clear of obstruction, an open closet door and a closed second door that presumably led to the rest of the apartment. Dick crossed the room silently, intending to check the other rooms to make sure the apartment really was empty before performing a more thorough search.

He made it just past the closet before the skin on the back of his neck and shoulders started to crawl. He spun and leapt backward, shining the flashlight where he hoped his attacker's eyes would be. He was accurate, but even though the man who'd been sneaking up on him flinched, the gun he was holding certainly didn't waver and Dick had formulated two different lines of attack and three of escape before his forebrain caught up with him and he actually looked at the man's face.

"Jason?"

Jason, it seemed, had had a similar response, because at the same time he said, "Dick?" A heavy sigh and he put the gun down on the dresser next to him, making sure the safety was on. "What the hell?" He squinted at Dick, then slapped the nearby light switch. "Nice makeup job."

Dick blinked rapidly in the sudden light. "Thanks." He pulled the burner phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Jason. "That yours?"

Jason fumbled the catch and Dick's eyebrows went up as the phone clattered to the floor, collecting a few more scratches. "Hell," Jason said, looking at it as though it had fallen into the Mariana Trench. Dick examined him a little more closely.

He didn't quite have a black eye; it was more like his cheekbone was bruised very near the corner of his eye. He was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants that looked a size too big, and a tatty old sweater even bigger than that. He'd been holding the gun in his left hand, and was now leaning against the dresser with that arm, the weight off his right leg.

"You okay?" Dick asked before he could think better of it.

The exhaustion wiped itself off Jason's face instantly and he bent to swipe the phone off the floor, hiding the stiffness and pain the movement caused him almost perfectly. "Been wondering where that got to," he said.

"It was at the bar where you apparently got in a fight with a small army. Owner texted me. Since, you know, I was the only contact in the phone."

Jason scowled. "Should have been locked."

"It's half smashed. I'm thinking security fritzed."

"Probably the bat," Jason mused. At Dick's look, he shook his head. " _Baseball_ bat. Don't worry about it. That all?"

Dick wordlessly held out the folded bill for the repairs. Jason took it from him at arm's length and looked at it with a snort. "Only the window was my fault."

Dick had the sudden impression that all the other broken furniture had been broken on Jason. "Just how many people were involved in this brawl?" he asked, watching Jason move past him out of the bedroom and to the kitchen; watching where he overcompensated trying to act natural; watching the too-large, easy-to-put-on-without-having-to-stretch sweater slide off one shoulder and reveal a bruise with a livid yellow center and purpling edges that extended under the fabric.

Jason stuck the bill to the fridge with a pineapple-shaped magnet."Lost count. Don't worry, I'll take care of the repairs. Now do you mind? I've got stuff to do." Jason leaned casually on the kitchen counter, right in front of the bottle of strong painkillers he was clearly hoping Dick hadn't seen.

"Yeah. Sure, Jay." Dick turned back to the bedroom to head for the window.

"Just use the front door for God's sake," Jason said, hauling himself from his lean on the counter to gesture Dick in the right direction. But he only made it two steps before his leg crumpled and he went down hard, a kitchen chair skidding into the wall as he completely failed to break his fall in any way.

Dick's eyes flew wide and he was kneeling next to Jason in an instant. "Hold still," he said. "Let me look."

"I'm fine," Jason muttered, but he didn't try to push Dick away. He'd landed on his side, hip and elbow taking most of the fall, and now he was leaning on his arm, head bowed, trying to gather the strength to get back up.

"You're an idiot, is what you are," Dick muttered right back. "How bad is that leg, really?"

"Dick—"

"You were in bed, weren't you? Probably had security to notify you about a break-in attempt on the stair door, got yourself behind the closet door to hide when I came in, but you were in bed, which is the only reason it's not made. You always make your bed." Dick sighed and pulled Jason's arm over his shoulder since he seemed determined to stand, then rose slowly, bearing Jason's weight. "It's not even late. How long have you been this bad?"

"Can you shut up for two seconds?" Jason snarled. But he wasn't pulling away.

"If I don't talk, you have to," Dick said, steering them back into the bedroom. Not being able to leave bed was bad, but trying to walk around like nothing was wrong was worse.

"It's just a muscle strain," Jason said. Dick was tempted to dig a thumb into the giant bruise on Jason's shoulder that was definitely _not_ a muscle strain, but Jason went on. "Might be a small concussion."

Dick exhaled harshly. "Yeah, okay." He lowered Jason to sit on the edge of the bed. "What year is it, who's the police commissioner, what's my favorite color?" he asked.

"2020, Jim Gordon, and blue," Jason said irritably.

"Aw, I didn't know you knew my favorite color," Dick said brightly. He pulled out his flashlight.

"Microorganisms in the Antarctic know your favorite color, Dick."

Dick hummed in agreement. "Look straight ahead." Jason did, and winced when Dick shone the light in his eyes. "Light sensitivity?"

"Just a little."

"Your pupils are the same size, so that's a good thing. Headache?"

"There's no part of me that _doesn't_ ache. Look, you can go, I'll be fine," Jason said. Dick thought he was staring at the floor, but then he saw his eyes were closed, his head bowed. "Pain meds will be kicking in any minute, I've got a heat pack, and once I patch the security you bulled through I'll be safe."

"I'll patch the security. When did you take the meds?"

"None of your business." Jason looked like he regretted saying anything at all, which probably meant he actually had taken them. Dick imagined Jason biting down on his reservations and taking the meds, then crawling into bed only to be driven back into alert mode, fighting down the grogginess to face whatever threat had broken in.

Well, he was safe now and Dick would make it up to him by making sure he stayed that way. "When's the last time you ate something other than a protein bar?" Dick asked.

"I dunno," Jason said. His voice was getting lower, heavier. It was like he'd expended all the energy he'd had on this brief interaction, and he was slowly wilting.

"What about the job?"

"Job?"

"The reason you were undercover at The Manhole in the first place?"

"Oh, that's done." Jason waved a hand vaguely. "Mission accomplished. Can you turn off the light when you go?"

Dick went over to the light switch and flicked it off. Jason let out a long, slow sigh and pulled himself further into the bed. Then Dick went out into the kitchen and turned that light on, leaving the bedroom door open so that the bedroom would be lit indirectly. He borrowed a kitchen chair and brought it next to the bed. Jason looked like he was most of the way to sleep already.

"Dick? Didn't you leave?" he asked groggily.

 _Sense of time a little messed up_ , Dick noted. _Headache, light sensitivity, balance problems. Mild concussion. Plus whatever other injuries he's hiding._ "What was the job?" he asked. He should let Jason sleep, but he wanted a clearer picture of his mental state first.

Jason laughed faintly and closed his eyes. "Go undercover with Penguin's guys. Leave clues that I'm actually one of Black Mask's guys. Watch the fireworks when Penguin thinks Black Mask's been spying on him and cancels the deal they were brewing." Jason grinned, then winced when it pulled at the bruise on his face. "Ow."

"Did you mean to get stuck in the middle of those fireworks?" Dick asked, letting his exasperation through more than he'd meant to.

A lethargic shrug. "Thought it might come to that." Jason was quiet for a few moments and Dick thought he'd drifted off. "Were more of them than I thought," he added, sleep and medication and a head injury weighing his words down.

"Yeah. You'll be okay though. Go to sleep," Dick said. He was already planning the lecture on having backup for undercover ops, but it would clearly be lost on Jason at the moment.

"I don't want to." Nevertheless, his face was relaxing, his breaths evening out.

"I don't think you have much choice," Dick said, amused despite himself.

"Tha's bullshit."

"So's picking a fight with Penguin's gang and Black Mask's gang without any backup." Okay, so he could lecture a _little_. "Why was I the only contact in your phone, Jay?"

Jason huffed a breath out through his nose that might have been a snore, his eyes still closed. One of his hands trailed over the sheets, grasping at them with a little tugging motion, his shoulders tight and bunched. Cold, and trying to pull a blanket over himself. Dick grabbed one from the corner of the bed where it had been crumpled and tugged it over him. Jason curled into it, turning on his side to draw it over his shoulders. He pushed his head deeper into the pillow, his nose, bruised eye, and hair the only parts left unswathed.

Then he said, into his blanket, "'Cuz I know you'll come. If you can."

"I… that…" Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to sort through the warm feeling of being wanted that was welling up in his chest and the spiky, frustrated feeling that was developing in his temples. "It doesn't work if you don't actually call me, little wing," he said with all the patience he could muster.

Jason gave a sleepy _hmm._ Then he said, "Not if it's sheep." and Dick wondered how much of this conversation had been sleeptalking.

* * *

Jason's hip, knee, shoulder, and face all hurt but at least his headache was gone. He had that muzzy painkiller-sleep feel, like his head was a bit inflated and heavy, but he'd take that over a migraine. Maybe he'd be able to stand long enough today to make something decent to eat. He needed to scrub this safehouse back to neutral and get moving. He'd stayed too long after the job already.

First step, open eyes.

What was one of his kitchen chairs doing in his— oh it wasn't a dream. Dick had actually been here. Great. _Great._ Everything after falling in the kitchen was a little fuzzy, the edges of it softened. Shouldn't there have been more yelling? He wished he could remember exactly what he'd said.

Jason groaned and attempted a tentative stretch, stopping as the muscles pulled too much or too little.

Dick stuck his head in the door. "Good morning."

"Why are you still _here_ ," Jason demanded, scrubbing his hands over his face – gently, on the side that was bruised.

"Wanted to make sure you didn't die in your sleep. Are you hungry?"

Jason was starving. "No. Go away."

"Soup."

"For breakfast?"

"It has protein and salt and fluids and if you puke it's easier coming up than Pop-Tarts."

"I don't have Pop-Tarts in my house."

"You don't have eggs, either, which was my first choice." He thrust a glass of water under Jason's nose. "Drink this. Do you want more pain meds?"

Jason remembered the haze of medication falling over him yesterday (or maybe earlier today? What time was it?), the lassitude settling bone-deep as he felt muscles relax for the first time since the bar fight. Definitely an effect of the meds and not an effect of having someone he trusted here taking care of him. He snatched the glass. "No."

"Suit yourself." Dick ducked back out.

Jason drank the water very slowly. Soon he could smell chicken soup being warmed on the stove. By the time he finally braced himself enough physically and mentally to leave the bedroom, Dick had a steaming bowl waiting for him on the kitchen table. Along with a laptop opened to a PowerPoint presentation, the title slide of which read _Proper Procedures for Undercover Missions._

Dick grinned at him, pulled out the chair, and handed him a spoon. "I have some notes for you."

Jason thought about dumping the soup on the keyboard, but it was one of his laptops so he opted against it. Instead, he sat down and looked expectantly up at Dick, who reached across the table and pressed the space bar. The title slide dissolved into pixels and the next slide formed in a flurry of glitter.

**Undercover Basics! You will need:**

\- An exit strategy

\- A reliable persona

\- **BACKUP**

The last item bounced onto the screen and pulsed a few times before settling. The bullet points were little bats. "So," Dick began. "It has come to my attention that—"

_Sslllllurrrrrrp._

Dick glared at Jason, who looked innocently up at him. "Thanks for the soup, Dick."

"Right. Well. Going on an undercover mission without telling any—"

_Slllllirp._

"—one where you're going is bad enough but you should really have active support in the—"

_Slorrrrrrp._

"Jason!"

"Dick!"

They glared at each other for a few moments before Dick slammed the laptop lid shut. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I didn't think I needed you."

"You can call me even if you don't need me!"

"So you can _lecture_ me?"

"That's why you call _before_ the mission!"

"I can handle one simple undercover mission!"

"You call this simple? Running two of Gotham's biggest gangs against each other? Putting yourself in the middle of it?" Dick bit back his tirade and threw himself into the other chair so he wasn't towering over Jason. "Look, any of us would have called in support on an op like this. And you know you don't have to do it alone, you know I'll always come."

"Do I know that Dick? Really?"

Dick frowned at him with his whole face, eyebrows and lips and jaw all making the downward motion. "Yeah, you do. You told me so last night."

Jason closed his eyes. "That was—"

"And you were right."

Jason blinked. Dick was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at Jason with his whole soul in his eyes. He'd taken out the contacts and scrubbed the makeup from his face, Jason noted distantly.

"I will always come if you call me. If I can."

Somehow, the qualifier – _if I can, if at all possible_ – made the statement into a promise Jason could accept. As much as he wanted to rage about it, to remind Dick of the times no one had been there for him, he nodded. "I know." He did.

"And sometimes when you don't call me," Dick said with a crooked grin.

Jason snorted and turned back to his soup. "Boy busybody," he muttered.

Dick just shrugged. "Comes with the territory." He got up and went back into the kitchen to wash the soup pot out. Jason watched him with a furrowed brow, trying to figure out what he wanted to say, because there was definitely something. By the time Dick had dried the pot and was trying to remember which cupboard he'd gotten it from, Jason had it.

"Hey Dick," he said. Dick turned, twirling the pot in his hands. "Me too. I mean, I will too. I mean—" _Fucking concussion._ "Call me if you need me."

Dick nodded. "Okay," he said, deliberately casual.

"The pot goes in the cupboard by the fridge."

"Ah." Dick whirled and nestled the pot in with its compatriots, then paused. "What if I don't need you?" he asked, studying the stack of cookware.

"…text instead, I guess."

Dick smiled like he'd just been handed a kitten. "Yeah. All right, I will."


End file.
